


Mimicry

by blythechild



Series: Ignition Series [7]
Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:11:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a follow-up to "Gentlemen Take Polaroids". It is an alternate telling of Evey's encounter with the Fingermen in the alleyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mimicry

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains mature themes, violence, and sexual content. It should not be read by minors.
> 
> This is fanfiction and as such I do not claim ownership over the characters herein. It was created as a personal entertainment.

It’s not what you know, but how you use it that counts.

She used the allure of sex to get what she wanted, but that was not real power. She wanted what _he_ had: the thrill of violence and bloodshed. She could enthrall men, it was true, but he could make them fear him, and here – in this time – fear was the ultimate currency.

She had known kindness once, even tenderness, but she had been abused too many times since then. Her heart was battered and bruised beyond her age, and she saw no hope of relief. Who would want a sad, little stripper, no matter how pretty she was? She pulsed with the core-driven desire for vengeance against those who victimized with impunity; those that society congratulated for being ignorant and brutal. She wanted revenge against men like this one: the one that she ground her sacred self against in false passion for a few paltry pounds to stave off hunger and humiliation. She wanted it, but she did not know how to get it.

Evey rubbed herself between Creedy’s legs while he chatted with a few Fingermen sitting at the table with him. Despite his apparent lack of interest, she could feel his arousal rising and suppressed a need to gag at the thought. The other Fingermen were mesmerized by her performance – it was not hard to achieve – but no one would make a move on her until Creedy made up his mind about her first. Such command! 

She had been unlucky tonight: Creedy’s favorite girl had not shown up for her shift and when his petulant eyes surveyed the available offerings, they had landed on her. Evey rode the razor’s edge of fear as she made her way over to him. If she pleased him too much, he would want her for a private session – many who left for one-on-one’s with Creedy never came back, including the girl who missed tonight’s shift. If she did not please him, she might be black bagged, or at best, sacked from the club on the spot. 

Evey loathed her fear. She was the antithesis of Creedy and he fed off her terror like a vulture on carrion meat: picking her apart one stringy strip of flesh at a time. She wanted to be special. She wanted to be someone who _meant_ something to someone – she wanted to be the girl that Vincent said that she could be. 

_What are you doing here, Evey? You are evidently smart, and obviously beautiful – you could be anything, ANYTHING that you wanted_ , his voice rang through her mind. 

She had only known him for one song, months before, but she clung to the belief that he could see something in her that others could not. He never came to the club again in spite of his promise, and some nights she was amazed by her anger at that small betrayal. No more men, she vowed, no more passion denied, and no more fear – only blood. Blood and vengeance.

Creedy turned to look at her as she ground into his lap once more. His lust was affecting his ability to talk. She was so small: she would be fun to fuck, but no fun to break at all – it would be over too quickly. The petite ones never lasted.

“What’s yer name, honey?”

“Sahara.” Evey looked down demurely.

“Ha! Like the desert. That’s a lousy name for a whore – makes a bloke think that yer cooch is all dry and scratchy…” He grinned, displaying his rotten teeth while his cohorts hooted with laughter.

“I’m not a whore.” She said it before she could stop herself.

“What?” growled Creedy

“I’m a dancer…”

Creedy grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back so that her neck made a painful cracking noise. She let out a yelp as he forced her to kneel on the sticky floor between his legs. His men were suddenly silenced.

“You are whatever I tell you _you are_. You make yer money takin’ yer clothes off for strange men and doin’ what they please – yer a fuckin’ whore.” He whispered to her face, bathing her in the stink of his whiskey-coated rotting mouth. “Seems ye need a little on-the-job training, dolly. After ye’ve blown me ‘ere, you’ll service each of me men too.”

He pushed her head into his crotch and fumbled at his fly to the uproarious cheering of his men. Evey fought back her need to scream and thrash under his grip – no one would come to her aid – the Fingermen owned this dump, and it would just make it worse for her in the end. He freed his cock, warm and rubbery, and it hit her in the face. Her mind recoiled, but her body could do it – her mind would deal with it later. All she had to focus on now was survival.

Goddamn her! She hated herself and her fear. She should just bite the damn thing clean off. She should grab a beer bottle and smash it across his face. She should sodomize him with the broken end. His men would kill her, but at least she would die whole and with a small amount of integrity. She should, but she would not. 

She opened her mouth.

Creedy’s phone beeped urgently. He released her hair and fumbled in his suit jacket. He retrieved it and read something on it, then quickly stuffed himself back into his trousers. His men groaned with disappointment.

“C’mon, ye fuckin’ loafs – plenty a tail about. We’ll get to it later. There’s been a murder: one of Sutler’s cronies. We’re all in on this one.”

Creedy placed a shoe on Evey’s naked chest and kicked her backwards into the table as he and his men rose to leave. She smashed her head hard enough to see stars for a moment, and when she came to she found him standing over her.

“I’ll be back for you, doll. Don’t be runnin’ off – no one escapes the Finger.” And then he was gone.

 

Evey wrapped herself in her thin overcoat that was unsubstantial against the cold November rain that soaked her to the skin. She shivered as she slipped quietly from back alley to back alley trying to get home. A large goose egg was throbbing on the back of her skull and her neck ached where Creedy had yanked it. Her feet were frozen and her stomach growled from lack of food – she would starve another day or two until she could make enough in tips to buy more groceries – paying her rent and heating bill were more important. The incident between her and Creedy gave her a timeline for her immediate existence: she might not even be around to pay rent next month. She might be dead and gone by then. It might be a relief, she thought.

She was halfway down the alley before she realized that she had taken a wrong turn. Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she turned and headed back to the mouth of the street. Two shadows blocked her access to the street.

“Where you goin’, luv?”

“Yeah, what ye doin’ out so late?”

Her fear, never far from the surface, resurrected itself. She reached into her pockets and debated between the switchblade and the can of mace.

“Nowhere. I was out visiting a sick relative. I’m out past curfew, I know, and I’m sorry.” She knew that they were Fingermen. No one else would be out this late.

“Sorry, don’t pay the Piper, luv. And you still _owe us_ one.” Said the first one.

“Yeah.” Said the second.

Christ, they were Creedy’s men from the club! Was it not bad enough that they humiliated her and nearly got her fired? Was it not all right that she would end up fallating them all sooner or later? Why did it have to be tonight? Why couldn’t she have a little peace after all of the fear and unwarranted respect that she offered to them and the like _daily_? Her anger was rising, but she felt it like she was a phantom in her own body. Her anger chose the switchblade.

“I don’t owe you diseased wretches shit.” She whispered.

“Really?” said the first as he drew closer to her into the light of the alley.

“Doll, I’ll fuck ya dead or alive – same difference to me.” Said the second, who had already unzipped his fly. “Just so long as yer still warm. So, choose, bitch.”

Something clicked off inside her. Her sight focused on the two men in her path – the path between her and her bed, her shower, and her refuge. She would not submit tonight. Not tonight. Her head hurt and her frozen fingers slipped a little on the smooth handle of her switchblade in her pocket. Better off dead than afraid, she thought. Maybe if she pretended that she was a killer, she would seem like one. Something fluttered in the darkness at the edge of her vision, but she paid it no heed: she was cloaking herself in the spirit of a murderer.

“It’ll be difficult for you to fuck me if you’re dead, so I choose ‘dead’.” 

She flicked the switchblade and the knife shred a hole in her coat pocket before she could draw it out. The fluttering in the corner of her eye became more pronounced but she moved into the first Fingerman and slashed down across his chest before he could get a grip on the situation. He fell back with a yelp onto his back as Evey turned and was grabbed by the throat by the second Fingerman.

“Dirty little cunt rag!” He yelled as he lifted her off her feet. “Derek! Derek, are you okay?”

His grip was like a vise clamping life away from her mind. Her vision darkened, but her arms and legs still worked, so she slashed out madly with the knife. The third time she hit something and a warm, wet spray dampened her face.

“Arrrgh!”

His hand let go of her suddenly and she fell to the cold cobblestones, bruising her elbows and tailbone as she landed on her back. She breathed in hard, rasping gulps as she tried to clear her eyes. She heard footsteps and shuffling. Then, new hands were on her throat and choking her while smashing her head against the slick alley floor.

“You, BITCH! YOU KILLED ALAN! DIE, JUST FUCKING DIE!” 

Her head pounded and her brain shut off. She could not see, or breathe, but she could feel. She felt the knife still in her hand and she flicked it across his arm and down until he howled. One hand left her throat and then returned with a brutal punch to her jaw, which sent her into starry land again.

Moments passed. She did not respond to anything: not the damp, or the cold, or the pain, or the yelling. She lay in a heap and saw stars. Finally, hands grabbed her coat. She struck out fiercely and blindly, but this time her knife was knocked cleanly and simply away. She resorted to her fists and her knees as she flailed. Her vision blurred and she saw a hideous grinning monster loom over her.

“NO! FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! NOOOOOOO!”

“Evey, stop! Stop it, please!” His hands grabbed hers and tried to still her, but she continued to thrash.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU FUCKING PIG!”

“I’M NOT A FINGERMAN, EVEY!” He bellowed. “They’re dead – you killed them!”

He stilled her body by pressing it painfully against him. With his free hand he lifted her head so that she could see, no matter how faintly, the butchered bodies of the two men. Pools of blood were spreading around them. One lay with his head at an awful angle to his body - a deep, ragged slash across his throat. The other lay nearby. The cuts across his chest and arm were only skin deep – not so the one that opened him up from throat to groin. 

She screamed. The grinning figure moved to block her view and she screamed again as she saw his face clearly for the first time. His grin was fake: he wore a mask. His eyes were black and pupiless. He was dressed head to toe in black and wore a wide brimmed hat that blocked the alley’s light from both of them. A belt of knives pressed against her under his cloak.

“Who the hell are you?” She gasped.

“It’s okay, Evey – it’s Vincent. We met some time ago at the club where you work. Do you remember?” His voice was smooth and calm.

“You’re NOT Vincent!”

“Evey, I look different, I know, but I swear to you that I am.”

“Prove it.”

“Gentlemen Take Polaroids.” He said simply. “I gave you a hundred quid for a dance and you let me call you by your real name. I’m sorry that I have not returned – I intended to.”

Evey’s mind swirled and pounded. She was going to lose consciousness at any moment. Was she any safer with him than she was with the Fingermen? She no longer cared. All she wanted was to sleep, even if it was on the slimly cobblestones beneath her. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to her fate.

“Evey? Don’t fall asleep. Evey?” Vincent shook her and she roused for a moment. “You may have a serious head injury – don’t fall asleep.”

“I wanna go home…” she murmured and drifted off.

“I’ll do better.” Vincent said. “I’ll take you to a place without fear.”

He turned and carried the unconscious killer into the shadows. The bodies that they left behind spoke to their singular nature: one made, one born, but both the same.


End file.
